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At night, there are the nightspots and free concerts. My group of friends tends to meet up around midnight – when my friends in the tourism and hotel industry get off from work; when the nightspots start getting packed – and those of us who don’t live at home* and might not have eaten dinner or those of us who do live at home** but are still hungry might hit a pub for something to snack on.

*myself, Katarina – the resident foreigners in the bunch**the Italians

An Italian pub is not a pub, but it is called a pub nonetheless. Inspired by pubs of England and Ireland, an Italian pub will often have a name in English – butchered by the locals – and a full menu of beer, American cocktails, Italian apertifs, German and Italian dishes, as well as hamburgers that are not hamburgers, but are instead shriveled hockey pucks. Apart from a hamburger, you might order a plate of tortellini alla boscaiola, a plate of french fries, an insalata caprese, a sausage plate, tiramisu, a pizza, or a panino. We know which pubs in town make decent cocktails (not La Santa Maria), which pubs can’t make desserts for crap (*cough* The Strong), and which pubs have terrific craft beer (*sigh* The Strong). My friend Piercarlo once ordered millefoglie for dessert at La Santa Maria and made the tragic mistake of telling me that eating millefoglie makes him nervous; so many layers, so much opportunity to make a mess. I’ve tortured him about this ever since.

There will be a TV in the corner playing the music television. Barely legal waitresses with giant boobs bouncing around. A few families who’ve decided to bring their toddlers out at one in the morning. And then – regular as the sunrise, persistent as the heat – come the rose vendors.